In an orb of ravishing sounds, Through faint-falling echoes of heavens

Mid beautiful earths without bounds.

10.

Now sighing, as zephyrs in summer, The concords glide in like a stream,

With a sound that is almost a silence, Or the soundless sounds in a dream.

11.

Then oft, when the music is faintest, My soul has a storm in its bowers,

Like the thunder among the mountains, Like the wind in the abbey towers.

12.

There are sounds, like flakes of snow falling In their silent and eddying rings;

We tremble,—they touch us so lightly, Like the feathers from angels' wings.

13.

There are pauses of marvellous silence, That are full of significant sound,

Like music echoing music

Under water or under ground.

14.

That clarion again! through what valleys

Of deep inward life did it roll, Ere it blew that astonishing trumpet

Right down in the caves of my soul?

15.

My mind is bewildered with echoes,— Not all from the sweet sounds without;

But spirits are answering spirits In a beautiful muffled shout.

16.

Oh cease then, wild Horns! I am fainting;

If ye wail so, my heart will break; Some one speaks to me in your speaking

In a language I cannot speak.

17.

Though the sounds ye make are all foreign, How native, how household they are;

The tones of old homes mixed with heaven, The dead and the angels, speak there.

18.

Dear voices that long have been silenced, Come clear from their peaceful land,

Come toned with unspeakable sweetness From the Presence in which they stand.

19.

Or is music the inarticulate Speech of the angels on earth?

Or the voice of the Undiscovered Bringing great truths to the birth?

20.

O music! thou surely art worship;

But thou art not like praise or prayer; And words make better thanksgiving

Than thy sweet melodies are.

21.

There is in thee another worship, An outflow of something divine;

For the voice of adoring silence, If it could be a voice, were thine.

22.

Thou art fugitive splendors made vocal, As they glanced from that shining sea,

Where the Vision is visible music, Making music of spirits who see.

23.

Thou, Lord! art the Father of music;

Sweet sounds are a whisper from Thee; Thou hast made Thy creation all anthems,

Though it singeth them silently.

24.

But I guess by the stir of this music What raptures in heaven can be,

Where the sound is Thy marvellous stillness, And the music is light out of Thee.

131.

THE STARRY SKIES. 1.

The starry skies, they rest my soul,

Its chains of care unbind, And with the dew of cooling thoughta

Refresh my sultry mind.

2.

And, like a bird amidst the boughs,

I rest, and sing, and rest, Among those bright dissevered worlds,

As safe as in a nest.

3.

And oft I think the starry sprays Swing with me where I light,

While brighter branches lure me o'er New gulfs of purple night.

4.

Yes, something draws me upward there As morning draws the lark;

Only my spell, whate'er it is, Works better in the dark.

5.

It is as if a home was there, * To which my soul was turnimg,

A home not seen, but nightly proved By a mysterious yearning.

6.

It se.ems as if no actual space

Gould hold it in its bond; Thought climbs its highest, still it is

Always beyond, beyond.

7.

Earth never feels like home, though fresh

And full its tide of mirth; No glorious change we can conceive

Would make a home of earth.

8.

But God alone can be a home;

And His sweet Vision lies Somewhere in that soft gloom concealed,

Beyond the starry skies.

9.

So, as if waiting for a voice,

Nightly I gaze and sigh, While the stars look at me silently

Out of their silent sky.

10.

How have" I erred! God is my home,

And God Himself is here; Why have I looked so far for Him

Who is nowhere but near?

11.

Oh not in distant starry skies,

In vastness not abroad, But everywhere in His whole Self

Abides the whole of God.

12.

In golden presence not diffused, Not in vague fields of bliss,

But whole in every present point The Godhead simply is.

13:

Down, in earth's duskiest vales, where'er

My pilgrimage may be, Thou, Lord! wilt be a ready home

Always at hand for me.

14.

I spake: but God was nowhere seen;

Was His love too tired to wait? Ah no! my own unsimple love

Hath often made me late.

15.

How often things already won

It urges me to win, How often makes me look outside

For that which is within!

16.

Our souls go too much out of self

Into ways dark and dim: 'Tis rather God who seeks for us,

Than we who seek for Him.

17.

Yet surely through my tears I saw

God softly drawing near; How came He without sight or sound

So soon to disappear?

18.

God was not gone: but He so longed

His sweetness to impart, He too was seeking for a home,

And found it in my heart. •

19.

Twice had I erred: a distant God Was what I could not bear;

Sorrows and cares were at my side; I longed to have Him there.

20.

But God is never so far off

As even to be near; He is within: our spirit is

The home He holds most dear.

21.

To think of Him as by our side

Is almost as untrue, As to remove His throne beyond

Those skies of starry blue.

22.

So all the while I thought myself

Homeless, forlorn, and weary, Missing my joy, I walked the earth

Myself God's sanctuary.

132.

THE SORROWFUL WORLD. 1.

I heard the wild beasts in the woods complain; Some slept, while others wakened to sustain Through night and day the sad monotonous round, Half savage and half pitiful the sound.

2.

The outcry rose to God through all the air, The worship of distress, an animal prayer, Loud vehement pleadings, not unlike to those Job uttered in his agony of woes.

3.

The very pauses, when they came, were rife With sickening sounds of too successful strife, As, when the clash of battle dies away, The groans of night succeed the shrieks of day.

4.

Man's scent the untamed creatures scarce can bear, As if his tainted blood defiled the air; In the vast woods they fret as in a cage, Or fly in fear, or gnash their teeth with rage.

5.

The beasts of burden linger on their way, Like slaves who will not speak when they obey; Their faces, when their looks to us they raise, With something of reproachful patience gaze.

6.

All creatures round us seem to disapprove; Their eyes discomfort us with lack of love; Our very rights, with signs like these alloyed, Not without sad misgivings are enjoyed.

7.

Earth seems to make a sound in places lone, Sleeps through the day, but wakes at night to moan, Shunning our confidence, as if we were A guilty burden it could hardly bear.

8.

The winds can never sing but they must wail; Waters lift up sad voices in the vale; One mountain-hollow to another calls With broken cries of plaining waterfalls.

9.

Silence itself is but a heaviness, As if the earth were fainting in distress, Like one who wakes at night in panic fears, And nought but his own beating pulses hears.

10.

Inanimate things can rise into despair; And, when the thunders bellow in the air, Amid the mountains, earth sends forth a cry, Like dying monsters in their agony.

11.

The sea, unmated creature, tired and lone, Makes on its desolate sands eternal moan: Lakes on the calmest days are ever throbbing Upon their pebbly shores with petulant sobbing.

12.

O'er the white waste, cold grimly overawes And hushes life beneath its merciless laws; Invisible heat drops down from tropic skies, And o'er the land, like an oppression lies.

13.

The clouds in heaven their placid motions borrow From the funereal tread of men in sorrow; Or, when they scud across the stormy day, Mimic the flight of hosts in disarray.

14.

Mostly men's many-featured faces wear Looks of fixed gloom, or else of restless care; The very babes, that in their cradles lie, Out of the depths of unknown troubles cry.

15.

Labor itself is but a sorrowful song,

The protest of the weak against the strong;

Over rough waters, and in obstinate fields,

And from dank mines, the same sad sound it yields.

16.

0 God! the fountain of perennial gladness! Thy whole creation overflows with sadness; Sights, sounds, are full of sorrow and alarm; Even sweet scents have but a pensive charm.

17.

Doth earth send nothing up to Thee but moans? Father! canst Thou find melody in groans? Oh can it be, that Thou, the God of bliss, Canst feed Thy glory on a world like this?

18.

Ah me! that sin should have such chemic power To turn to dross the gold of nature's dower, And straightway, of its single self, unbind The eternal vision of Thy jubilant Mind!

19.

Alas! of all this sorrow there is need; For us earth weeps, for us the creatures bleed: Thou art content, if all this woe imparts The sense of exile to repentant hearts.

20.

Yes! it is well for us: from these alarms, Like children scared, we fly into Thine arms; And pressing sorrows put our pride to rout With a swift faith which has not time to doubt.

21.

We cannot herd in peace with wild beasts rude; We dare not live in nature's solitude; In how few eyes of men can we behold Enough of love to make us calm and bold?

22.

Oh it is well for us: with angry glance Life glares at us, or looks at us askance: Seek where we will,—Father! we see it now,— None love us, trust us, welcome us, but Thou I

133.

AUTUMN. 1.

Autumn once more begins to teach; Sere 1 saves their annual sermon preach And with the southward-slipping sun Another stage of life is done. The day is of a paler hue, The night is of a darker blue, Just as it was a year ago; For time runs fast, but grace is slow!

2.

Life glides away in many a bend, In chapters which begin and end; Each has its trial, each its grace, Each in life's whole its proper place. Life has its joinings and its breaks, But each transition swiftly takes Us nearer to or further from The threshold of our heavenly home.

3.

Years pass away; new crosses come; Past sorrow is a sort of home, An exile's home, and only lent For needful rest in banishment. It narrows life, and walls it in, And shuts the door on many a sin; 'Tis almost like a calm fireside, Where humbled hearts are fain to bide.

4.

Thou comest, Autumn, to unlade Thy wealthy freight of summer shade, Still sorrowful as in past years, Yet mild and sunny in thy tears, Ripening and hardening all thy growth Of solid wood, yet nothing loth To waste upon the frolic breeze Thy leaves, like flights of golden bees.

5.

Have I laid by from summer hours Ripe fruits as well as leaves and flowers? Hath my past year a growth to harden, As well as fewer sins to pardon? Is God in all things more and more A king within me than before? I know not, yet one change hath come,— The world feels less and less a home.

6.

My soul appears, as I get old, More prompt in act, in prayer less cold; Crosses, from use, more lightly press; Mirth is more purely weariness; With less to quarrel with in life, I grow less patient with its strife; I wish more simply, Lord! to be, Ailing or well, always with Thee!